


God is in the Simplest of Beasts

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Series: Jinx [11]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Anal Play, Consent, Dubious Ethics, F/M, Kink Meme, Kink Negotiation, Oral Sex, Rape Fantasy, Relationship Negotiation, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of God/Dog and F!Courier fills originally written for the kinkmeme. Features a Courier who was previously the LW, and set during Dead Money.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Control

He knew from when he first saw her-- small, arrogant, weak, looking about for anything to steal from the depths of the Sierra Madre-- that she was going to be trouble. Dressed in a salvaged stealth suit and with only a puny pistol as defense, he knows he can break her.

God is in control.

She is not like the woman of Steel, with the face like a roadmap and goals of her own, more reasons to hate the Old Man. She is not like the decomposing singer, trapped here since before the War by his own greed and inability to leave the shadows of the past. She is just a scavenger, a lone wanderer without ties to this place.

He wants to hurt her, bind her to him, _make_ her understand the need to hurt the Old Man for more than her personal, shallow efforts at escape.

But she is useful, too. Clever hands, picking apart locks that Dog (the idiot beast) would simply smash into disrepair. Clever mind, speaking to the machines and eliciting responses, whispering their machine-dream secrets into her ears. Clever eyes, pale and almost glowing like the phantoms in the fountain.

Useful. Not to be broken.

When she speaks, it is with naivete, claiming to have not been seeking treasure. Looking for clues, scavenging-- another way of saying 'looting'-- an abandoned bunker in hopes of discovering her past. She claims to remember little since before being shot in the head and left in the desert, even showing the scar for proof. It does not seem to be her first run-in with death; besides the chrysanthemum flower-burst of the bullet, there is a smaller, neatly sewn incision on her skull.

Claiming amnesia does not amend for the sins of her past, nor her inability to let them go.

God is wrathful and unforgiving. But he hungers, just as Dog hungers. Dog and God both crave flesh; Dog would devour his meat, choking it down without swallowing if it filled his belly faster. But at least the beast has been able to sate his appetites while in Father Elijah's service. God has had no release for his appetites in far longer.

He will crush her beneath him.

It does not matter how gently she tends to him after battle-- soft hands, soft will, soft spoken words of feigned comfort as she washes his wounds and applies bandages. Even administering one of their precious stimpaks when necessary, her movements as skilled as any doctor's. Dog loves her lingering touches, presenting the most mild of injuries as if it is a grievous wound. Dog's fawning sickens God. But she heals him anyway, regardless of whether it is God or Dog who reigns.

It does not matter how she chooses him over the other companions. Christine, her most natural ally, not chosen because she claims their skills are too similar even if their ideals are in alignment. Dean Domino, useful with his weapons but treacherous as a snake, with oily voice and lecherous mannerisms, staring at her as if he too remembers the hungers of flesh... he is not chosen because she claims his usefulness does not outweigh the mistrust she harbors for him, even knowing that should her collar blow, so would his. God— and Dog— are chosen because she appears to trust Dog, and hold himself in grudging respect. And Dog's physical abilities allow her to hang back, analyze, solve,  _loot_ — her main skills employed to full advantage.

It does not matter that when sleeping, she cries out in strange, half-remembered night terrors and clutches to Dog's— and God's— hand like a drowning man clutching a raft, or Dog to a dismembered haunch. For whatever reason, she finds comfort in his presence, the bulk of his body reassuring as he blocks the frame of a doorway during his turn on watch. There are moments she looks at him oddly, those cool grey eyes crinkling as if trying to match him against a memory.

Finally, after miserable days of scurrying with her, doing her bidding, watching her treat Dog with unrestrained delight and manipulation masquerading as kindness-- not that the stupid beast recognizes it, instead panting and howling for her, growing to rage against his time in the basement, away from fawning over her— his hungers have reached their limit.

"I want to feel you beneath me," God growls, reaching for her shoulder after she secures the police station against wandering Ghost People. She twists like a doll beneath his massive hand; while God may be short in stature for a super mutant, she is similarly small for a human.

"What, no foreplay?" she asks, only raising an eyebrow. This infuriates him, maddening that she does not anticipate his demands or respond with proper fear. In response, he shoves her to the nearest bed, pushing her back into the filthy mattress. The rusting springs sing off-key, creaking under their weight in discordant symphony.

"You know, I am interested, but your bedroom manner can use some improvement," she continues, the little courier, the wanderer, the girl with the bad-luck name. She actually smiles, reaching up to caress his cheek and look into his eyes.

She might imagine she is consenting, but in reality, it matters little to God. He presses her mouth beneath his, teeth biting on her lips as he breathes the scent of her hair, tasting the sweet copper trickle of her blood. Even amidst the toxic air of the Sierra Madre and covered in grit from the desert winds raging about, her hair is neon bright, scarlet red with dark roots. She smells just faintly of cinnamon, dust, and roads beyond imagining." _Ouch!_  Fuck! God, get some control!" she snaps, starting to squirm beneath him with more fight. Now this, this is interesting. Finally something to pique his fervor.

_'No! Leave her alone!'_  howls Dog, Dog in God, the beast rattling the cage of his imprisonment. God gives an audible grunt, letting the small woman think perhaps he is considering her complaint. Dog is raging against the bars, howling for God to not hurt the little courier, the one with the soft hands and the sweet smile, the one who shares bites of canned beans and snack cakes even when her own stomach growls...

God is in the simplest of beasts, and cannot quiet his wailing.

So God slows, grunting and looking down at the cursed woman, the Jinx— and gives a facsimile of a smile, an insincere apology. She sighs; her ruffled feathers soothed, she gives him a lopsided grin in return.

"Careful, then. I haven't done this in... a very long time. And I don't know if I've ever done it with a meta human before." Her whisper is a rapid patter of words, like cool rain on desert sands.

God just snorts at her convoluted intellectualism, her feigned innocence. "You would not forget lying with a super mutant, woman."

"I forgot a lot of things after Benny shot me," Jinx says simply. As plainly as a child saying its name, as if to explain away the many discrepancies in her stories.

"Let's see if  _this_  makes you remember," he grunts, peeling off her shirt. She wears no bra; was she anticipating this? Ravaging her body with lips, tongue, teeth— but restraining himself, creating small nips that make her gasp and bruise, rather than breaking the skin and allowing her flesh to bleed for him. Her torso and arms are a tapestry of history, telling stories of past fights, past conquests— and past losses. A section of pale, almost faded scarring, as if she had been clawed by monstrosities out in the Wastes. A starburst bullet wound, now healed and glimmering against the darkness of her skin. Dog may love her soft hands and gentle smile, but God loves her scars, the marks of her struggles. For all she may play at the soft-spoken peacekeeper,  _here_  is the proof that she is a fighter at heart.

A sign she can endure more than she pretends.

She gasps and moans, occasionally wincing as his teeth go too deep, as his selfish hands maul her breasts with harsh squeezes. She has small breasts, disappearing under his hands, which are so large he cups half her torso at the same time. She loves scars too, caressing his chest, the chiseled 'DOG' a favored touchstone as she traces her thumbs over it in wonder.

"Is it just God tonight, or would Dog like to come out to play?" she asks evenly, her eyes half-hooded with delirium. There is no sign of which she would prefer.

_'I want to touch her softness, I want to lick her clean, I want her to crawl all over me...'_  Dog howls in the basement, salivating and gnawing at the chains. God reflects sourly that even Dog has hungers for flesh beyond devouring, but this is God's night. Not Dog's. Tonight, the courier is his to crush and use.

"God should be more than enough," he growls, placing a rough hand at the junction of her thighs. The crazy bitch is hot for him, nearly scorching his palm with her lust. She moans, sighs, and starts inching off her pants. Pleased with this response, he rolls off her, lifting her with one hand about her waist and using the other to yank down the clothing. She hisses slightly at the rough treatment, but still helps him, kicking off her underwear along with the pants.

Nude and at his mercy now, she only mutters quietly as he strips off his own clothing.

"You really aren't into wine and roses, are you...?"

"Shut up," he commands. "Roll over. I wish to mount you."

"Fuck no," she retorts, eyes narrowing into a glare. "That thing between your legs would kill me. Warm me up first."

And Dog howls, drools, desires to do so. Wants to kiss each flowering bruise inflicted by God, wants to lick the scars of her body, wants God to not hurt her, to leave her whole and intact and still so soft...

And God must comply, if only to keep the beast in his cage.

"What do you need?" God asks, even though his throbbing erection demands attention, wants to bury itself in the heat of her cunt.

"Lick a little. Use your fingers." Her voice catches, and her eyes soften, lost in some fond memory. "I like fingers.”

He wants her to forget whatever past lover elicits this response, and is determined to do it better, harder, rougher. Even if she gets shot in the head again, he wants the jinxed courier to remember him. So he laps at her groin, finding a soft nub of flesh that causes her to squirm when touched, and continue unrelentingly bearing down on the tender spot. He pushes one finger in to her wetness, her body squeezing around the intruder like a vise. So God pushes a second finger in, then a third, and even tries for a fourth before she groans.

"No, too much. Work it a bit first," she says raggedly.

So he does, discovering that if he thrusts it  _this_  way, she moans with delight, or if he pushes  _this_  far, she winces and recoils on the bed. But she still likes it, his fingers now slick with her juices. There are a few times when she starts crying out that she's close, so close, but then God stops, never doing more than pushing her to the brink. He wants her over the edge only when his cock is sheathed in her, not before, and ignores her anger when he states as much.

"Selfish bastard. Bring your cock up here," she demands, finally backing off his fingers and squirming back in the bed. God complies— not out of obedience, but because the determined look in her eye and the warmth of her mouth is an intriguing combination.

She kisses the tip, using her impossibly small tongue to bathe the head of his erection in saliva and adoration. She even wraps her mouth about him, though immediately chokes when he attempts to slam his hips against her face.

"Take it easy, dammit! You are so fucking impatient..."

To keep him from fucking her throat raw, she wraps her hands around his cock and starts to stroke him, matching the movements of her lips and tongue. The sight of the tiny courier below him, mouth wrapped around his cock, looking far too delicate to be doing such a thing…

…it warms him inside, creating a hot curl of satisfaction in his belly.

Finally, she rolls over, propping herself on her elbows and waggling her hindquarters in the air in invitation. He mounts her like an animal, pressing her face into the filthy pillow as he enters her in a single, savage thrust, forcing himself through her tight folds and slamming his hips against her body. She is screaming in both pain and pleasure, a confusing combination for the Dog within. God has to reassure him that she likes it, she loves it, her cunt is sopping wet and slick and the sound of his balls slapping against her ass is reverberating throughout the abandoned station as she squirms wildly, too ineffectual to be true struggle and too deliberate to be entirely from pain, angling herself so he can penetrate just a little deeper, almost swiveling her hips and moaning as his girth fills her to the brim.

She is screaming muffled words into the cushion. Epithets, bliss, joy— he does not care. Not at first, and not really until he realizes she is simply chanting the same thing over and over.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucks, fucks, fox, fox…"

She is crying, moaning, body keying up and tensing. He can feel her body building to climax, as if she has been craving this rough treatment. There is no doubt in his mind that she has lain with a super mutant before for her body to have withstood the abuse he heaped on it; more than withstood, she is _enjoying_ it, the clear honey of her lubrication slick and sticky on his thighs.

But now, in suspicion, he twists his hand into her hair, lifting her so that now the words spill forth, clear and unimpeded. Her eyes are shut tight, lost in some internal reverie where physical sensation reigns supreme and higher thought is lost.

"Fox, fox..." she croons, but the cadence is off. Something shifts in his perception, and he finally correctly interprets the name. "Fawkes."

She is calling a name. A name that is not his. God disapproves; what use in crafting her to his will, binding her body to his if she cannot even call the right name? There should only be one name, one thought, one being ascendant in this moment.

" _My_  name, little scavenger.  _Mine_ ," he hisses in her ear.

"Oh God..."

And that is good enough for him. He roars, coming explosively inside her. She is climaxing too, the walls of her cunt squeezing him tightly, milking the last of his seed. He stays inside her for a few moments more, luxuriating in the feeling of this ravaged body wrapped around his, the warmth of her underneath him, and the pride in having tamed the bitch. Now, no matter what stories she might tell of wandering the wastes, fighting off demonic bears, dealing with angry Legionaries... he can always ignore her tall tales, and think back to this moment, and her crushed beneath him. Subservient to his will, even if she can invoke Father Elijah's voice and box him up again.

"...you're hurting me. Please roll off," she finally says, interrupting his self-satisfaction. He does so, because she is still useful. Breaking her does not yet serve his purpose. She rolls to the side as well, then nestles against him with a deflated sigh. "Would it be too much to ask you to hold me?"

He wraps his arm over her, but only because it's an easy way to keep Dog satisfied. The other voice is snuffling in the basement, confused and heartbroken. Too pathetic to be called rage, but jealous for the way she moaned beneath them both. Annoyed, he reminds Dog that he will have a turn with the courier as well.

Hesitantly, she interrupts their inner dialogue by saying something he would never have suspected.

"Have we... ever done this before?" she asks quietly, curled against him so he cannot see her face. Only hear the doubt and confusion in her voice.

"No," he snaps, insulted she would ask. He intends her to remember this, remember his body over hers and the way she screamed.

She is silent for a long while, and when she does speak, her voice is full of regret. "I didn't think so. But some things felt... familiar..."

"I will keep fucking you every night until you cannot remember anything else."

She interprets it as a promise, not a threat, and laughs. Silver peals of laughter, dancing like ghosts in the air of the Sierra Madre. Dog loves the sound, almost as much as he loved hearing her soft moans of pleasure.

"God, no. You mauled me worse than a yao guai. We can't do this every night."

"Then Dog will fuck you. One way or the other, you won't forget us." His statement is final, heavy with intent. Because he has already acknowledged that he likes having the little courier beneath him, and killing her or allowing her to die would be a waste.

"I might like that. But remember to be  _gentle_."

She says lots of things like that, ways she wants God— and Dog— to behave for next time. Being more gentle, telling them what she likes, what she hates. Asking how she can bring more pleasure to them. God just grunts occasionally, letting Dog listen in.

As far as God is concerned, there is only one thing that he cares about.

She won't fight him when he claims her again.


	2. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dog loves the Courier in his own way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cough* Still smut, but trying to get some more background. Plus, I like writing from different characters' perspective.

She sleeps gently against him, warm and soft. So warm and soft, gentler than a fire and making him tingle in a way that even the collar burning within his belly does not. Watching her—always watching her, when there aren’t Ghost People to eat or traps to avoid—is the most natural thing in the world, staring at the fragile bloom that somehow survived the toxic air of the Sierra Madre. He does not have the words to say this to her, the silver tongue and wonderful voice (so wonderful, even if it is rough and high at times, sounding like birds rather than the honey-voiced lady in the fountain) that she does, so he only _feels_ them, unable to articulate just how wonderful she is.

‘ _You only think that because she gives you snack cakes,’_ the other voice growls, the voice in the basement. He does not like the other voice, the one who yells and rages at him. It is useless to shout back at the other voice, far better to drown him out in commands and pain. The bite of metal teeth on flesh did the trick once, and so did dragging a serrated knife across his chest. There is no knife now, but there is still the bear trap on his wrist. Quietly, trying not to disturb the sleeping woman (Courier; she calls herself a courier, sometimes a wanderer, sometimes just bad luck; he does not know what she _thinks_ she is, he just _knows_ she is warm and soft and precious) he reaches for the trap on his left hand, using his right to squeeze the jaws together, pressing down through skin and biting and maybe it’ll make the other voice shut up for a little while…

Despite his efforts, she wakes, and he ceases. Yawning, she turns to face him with a sleepy smile, her hair ruffled and sticking out in all directions like exotic plumage.

“Good morning. Is it…?” There is hesitancy, a crinkling of her eyes as she gazes at him, trying to determine which personality is ascendant, and which is in the cage.

“Dog.”

“Oh, good. You are much gentler than God,” she sighs with relief, the little smile making him tingle again. She smells so good, like spice and food and roads beyond the prison of the casino…

‘ _She would not be here if it were not for you. You were the one who dragged her through the storm,’_ whispers the other voice. _‘She is just using you to escape. Just like the Old Man uses you._ ’

The other voice had used her, too. Dog still remembers, even chained in the basement. He nuzzles at her hair, breathing in the scent of her like fresh bread, filling the hollow parts of him that never get satisfied no matter how much he gorges. There are bruises and bite-marks on her breasts and thighs, the blossoming rose tattoos of God’s fingerprints. She has other markings, scars and wounds like flowers, like starlight, like an infinite canvas of pain and survival… but where God sees these as marks of strength, Dog is just reminded of how fragile the little Courier is. So small she would make little more than two, maybe three mouthfuls if he were to devour her. But he never will, no matter how good she smells or how soft her flesh. He promises himself he will take care of her, protect those clever hands and pale eyes and everything else attached to them.

“The other is not gentle.”

“No, he is not,” she agrees, sitting up with a wince. He wants to protest, to pull her back against him and just nuzzle against the tender back of her neck, lick the fleshy nubs of her ears, but then his traitorous belly growls. Quirking an eyebrow at him, she chuckles “Sounds like it’s time for breakfast.”

She moves differently than before, legs stiff and awkward. Not knowing any better, he leans forward to sniff at the junction of her thighs, smelling sweet musk and sweat and under it all, a tiny trickle of blood. Rather than enticing him as a possible appetizer, it makes his stomach churn. His little courier is injured.

“Hey, hey! Please don’t eat that! Or at least not until tonight, all right? We can play later,” she laughs, pushing him away. Her silver laughter is brittle on the edges, like broken-winged birds struggling against the sky. It saddens him, and all he can do is groan softly, picking himself up and putting on his pants. He knows God hurt her last night, and Dog isn’t sure how to fix it.

‘ _There is nothing TO fix. She is strong; she will recover. You will fuck her tonight, and keep her remembering us. I think you’ll enjoy fucking her.’_

“He hurt you,” he says, slow and stupid. He always feels so stupid, next to other voice, or the singing ghoul with the voice like crackling smoke and burning liquor, or the silent woman with the fidgety hands and the naked scalp. His little courier is the only one who does not make him feel stupid; she just smiles and re-explains things, or giggles like it’s a shared joke rather than him being the punch line.

She just shrugs, fitting a worn stealth suit over her greying underclothes. “I liked it.”

“But he hurt you,” he continues stubbornly.

She just quirks her eyebrow again—such an expressive eyebrow, he wonders if it’s like her tongue. If someone shaved her eyebrows, would she be able to speak? Or would she be mute like the woman of Steel?—and taps the Pip-Boy strapped to her wrist. It takes him a moment to glance between her bracelet and his, recognizing the reference to his bear trap. “We both understand that sometimes pain is worth it.”

And he does. He knows pain drowns out the voice, and wonders what voices she is trying to drown out. She speaks of ghosts often, and her past. Rather, how she does not _remember_ her past, all that ripped away by a man with a gun and a bullet to her brain.

He wanted to rip that man limb from limb, devour his beating heart, drink the blood still pouring from his warm body… but she said she already killed him. Sent him to the grave, a one-way ticket unlike her own. He does not understand her speech sometimes; she has no tickets, he remembers because he stripped her gear when they left the abandoned bunker, but when he asked she just giggled and said it was a turn of phrase. He still did not understand, but her smile was enough to make him not care. He would rather understand her smile, how she emits light and warmth even as scarred and fragile as she is.

As if to prove she is still hale and limber, she hops from one foot to the other, pulling her socks on without bothering to sit down or lean against the wall. Her hopping reminds him of tiny birds, silly little things with bright eyes and chirping voices. He likes her movement, likes the way she fidgets and moves like she is crackling with energy. Or are these more restless sounds, ways of trying to silence her inner voices?

He does not know. He just wants to hold her close and bathe her with his tongue, savor the smell of her and lick snack cake filling from her fingers. Again, his stomach growls, and for the first time in a while he feels ashamed.

She smiles, teeth gleaming in the hazy shadows of the police station. “Let’s go hunting, then.” He is happy to follow her lead, letting her dictate the path they travel. God is just growling in the background, cursing the Jinx for not cracking open the casino and letting them both at the Old Man. But Jinx is small and soft, and has explained she wants to scout everything in their surroundings, find anything that might be of value in the coming confrontation. She is so small and fragile, after all. Dog—and God, but it’s not God who understands the strength of this body, or the keen animal senses that he sneers at—knows her terror of the Ghost People, the way her heart accelerates, the small tremors in her hand as she fires her pistol. Fear never impedes her, nor does she allow it to rule her; instead she masks over the cracks with more jokes, more silly smiles, as if talking and moving will keep the ghosts at bay.

Here, at least, Dog knows he can excel—he can devour her fears, rending and swallowing the Ghost people so they no longer haunt her. There is a trio lurking in the Villa outside, eyes glowing through the red Cloud.  He waits just until she gives the nod of approval ( _‘How fitting that she commands you like a hound, letting you slip the leash to do her bidding!’_ God sneers) and takes off roaring, swinging his heavy fists and grabbing a ghost harvester before it has a chance to throw its spears. With an explosive pop and a spray of yellow ichor, he rips its arm from the socket, tossing the dismembered body into a wall as he starts flailing about with the arm as a club.

A bang and soft hiss of a bullet striking home tells him that Jinx is aiming for another, a chest shot that will injure it but not permanently keep it down. Dog remedies this by breaking its head, using the bloody limb of its own comrade to crack the skull. The last standing makes a sideways step and glide, moving like a shadow against the wall, sidling closer to Jinx. She is already backing away, trying to maintain her distance so that her little pop-gun can protect her, but is forced to jerk to the side as a spear clatters against the wall by her head.

Too quick for him to warn her, the last ghost person is on her, brandishing its knife spear and trying to cut her to ribbons. She twists to the side with a grunt, forced to drop her pistol and do something complicated with her feet, hooking one behind the enemy and shoving so that it falls to the ground. Dog does not permit it to rise, and for several minutes, the only sounds are of rending and chewing.

When he finally looks up, blood and gut trickling down his chin, tasting like copper smears, she is cleaning her weapon. She has also gathered the unbroken spears, saying they will be useful for disabling some of the deadly speakers. She is carefully not making eye contact, and God whispers it is because he is disgusting. Bad enough to bolt down everything, even segmented collars glistening with red neck meat like radscorpion flesh, but devouring these all-too-human looking creatures in front of the very human little Jinx?

He feels the need to apologize, to make amends, but there is only the gnawing hunger. He cannot stop, even if he looks at her with shame on his cheeks and blood on his lips. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Her eyes are wide, mouth slightly parted in startled confusion. Seeing her pink tongue inside reminds him of mirelurk meat, soft and tender, peeking out from the cracked shell… but she is not food, he firmly reminds himself. She is sweet and wonderful and not for eating.

He gestures towards the dismembered carcasses, now little more than bone and gristle covered with the wet scraps of their shredded containment suits.

“We cannot all control our hungers, Dog,” she says gently. “You are much bigger than I am. Of course you need to eat more than I do.”

His belly is quiet, and Dog wonders if she truly believes that or is simply attempting to soothe him. She reaches to him with one of her small hands, gently brushing her palms over the wall of his chest. Even confused and ashamed as he is, he responds to the touch with a deep sigh of contentment.

 _‘She is just petting her dog_ ,’ the other voice sneers, but Dog does not care. Her touch is all he needs.

She equips one of the knife spears, claiming she needs to conserve her bullets, and they continue exploring the Villa. She wants to explore the medical district, hoping to discover a clinic or pharmacy with stimpaks and Med-X. They encounter a few more scattered patrols of Ghost people, but Dog takes pride in how he never lets them get close enough to her to attack. Instead, she is able to focus on picking locks and accessing abandoned terminals, using her wits to unlock doors and safes that Dog would never have dreamed of opening.

In one long-deserted store, she discovers a small stash of Old World food, and laughs delightedly as she pulls out a crinkled cellophane wrapper. “Mm, potato chips. My favorite.” She rips the bag and pops two into her mouth, one at a time, letting the salty wafers crunch between her teeth, and offers a bag to Dog as well, as if she hasn’t just watched him devouring things that were once human. With her watching, he remembers to open his bag as well, pouring the contents into his gaping maw rather than swallowing the bag in its entirety.

“Some more canned foods, plus a tin of peaches. We’ll eat well tonight,” she says amiably, quickly stashing the items in a satchel. Dog wants to offer to carry it, but is afraid that maybe, in a moment of weakness and forgetfulness, he will eat it all himself

They continue exploring; she collects old poker chips as they go, and occasionally steps in front of Dog to disable a set of traps. They stay clear of the speakers, retreating whenever the familiar beeping sound emits from her collar or Dog feels the heat of his burning his insides. Sometimes, if they’re not shielded, she will throw one of her spears to disable it. Once, frustrated that she is unable to make the throw, she passes a spear to him. Dog destroys the speaker in a shower of sparks, triggering her delighted laugh again. It is a lovely sound, and he relishes it like memories of agave nectar, a sticky-sweet trickle down the back of his tongue.

Finally, they discover a first aid kit, and Jinx grins widely, hands flashing a double thumbs-up (to herself? To Dog? To God? Dog does not know, but she looks so _happy_ ) before she rips it open, almost cackling with glee at the discovery of two more stimpaks.

“Excellent haul! Now if I can just find a few more, and maybe some bobby pins, this will be a good day.”

 _‘Don’t let her forget about tonight_ ,’ God whispers, and Dog feels his brow furrowing, not sure what the voice is telling him. _’Oh, fuck her_ ,’ it says in exasperation. _‘Remind her who she belongs to_.’

She may belong to God, but Dog feels he belongs to her, following her orders and moving through the toxic city. Humming softly, she is oblivious to Dog’s internal debate as she goes through another medicine cabinet, pulling out a few bobby pins and an empty syringe.

It is not until they stop for lunch (her lunch; Dog’s snack) that he ventures to ask her about it. Slow and clumsy, he speaks, sitting awkwardly with his knees drawn close to his chest. “God hurt you last night. You want him to hurt you again?”

Opening a tin of pork and beans, she shakes her head emphatically. One scarlet lock falls over her eyes, and she blows it away with impatience. “No. Absolutely not. I told him last night he mauled me worse than a yao guai. I cannot, I _will not_ let him do that again. After all—“And here her eyes glint cold, pale blue and ruthless, an unfamiliar expression that Dog hates. “—for what _he_ wants, he can’t, ah, how did he put it? Leave me still breathing and walk away until your collar turns cold. And I’m not sure I could survive another bout of his roughness so soon.”

‘ _She fears me, but she won’t turn me away,’_ God says smugly. ‘ _She says this now, full of pride and smug in her small victories, but her body craves my domination. Even if you are as gentle and tender with her as she claims to want, she will still seek ME again.’_ “You want Dog in you tonight?” he asks, smacking his palm against the side of his head to rattle the voice loose.

She winces at the dull smack of flesh on flesh, and chews her lower lip before answering. “Does Dog want to be in me tonight?” she asks carefully.

He is not sure how to answer that. (‘ _Yes, you fool, you DO!’_ ) This is a choice to make. One that feels more important than ‘would you rather have cram or Salisbury steak?’ especially since his answer to _that_ is normally ‘both’ and she gives them to him anyway. But he remembers the warmth of her mouth on his cock, even if he was in the basement while God was in control. The squeeze of her thighs and her frenzied moaning, the way she cried and rocked beneath him…

His pants are abruptly too tight, and he shifts uncomfortably, unable to hide his swelling erection. Her gaze flicks to his obvious arousal, but she still waits for an answer.

“Yes. Very much.”

That must have been the right response; she is smiling now, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. “I’m glad.”

‘ _Remember, she only wants US because we remind her of an old lover. You want to break her of that, let her know that whoever he was is long gone.’_ At God’s words, Dog remembers that she was crying another name last night, someone who must have brought her great joy because she was moaning it when her excitement was rising… but she had called for God shortly after, and seemed to have forgotten all about it. ‘ _She is selfishly using US too, so there is no shame in using HER.’_ Dog does not think so, but his willingness to play with her is enough to settle the other voice for now.

“We still have at least a couple hours of adventuring ahead of us, but we can lair back up at the station and, uh, work on that. Just...” A brief wince of pain crosses her features, abrupt and fleeting like a cloud passing over the sun. “Remember to be gentle with me, Dog.”

“I promise,” he whispers. And this feels right too; a promise he can keep, one he always wants to keep.

He spends the rest of the time stealing glances at her, watching her whenever he does not hear the familiar whisper-tread of the Ghost people. Now that he knows he _can_ touch, and she _wants_ him to touch, he gazes at her with new eyes. Maybe she will let him lick her all over, taste her body and savor the wonders of her form. Her breasts are small but shapely, and the curve of her hips is a thing of beauty. There is much to admire on her, small as she is; she is compact with desire.

And she keeps feeding him; that certainly makes him happy. God crudely suggests that she is trying to avoid ‘the fate of the praying mantis’ but Dog thinks it is because she likes him and caring for him brings her delight. She shares tidbits of whatever treats she discovers, and carefully tends his wounds whenever he is injured. He loves her attention, basking in it like a gecko in the sun.

When at last it is time to go back to the police station, she gives him a sidelong peek. “Dog? Do you still want to…?” A subtle rock of her hip and bite of her lips is all the hint she needs to give before he is nodding enthusiastically, resisting the urge to push her against the wall, slam his body into hers and feel her so tight and hot…

No. That’s God’s desire, not his; the memory of what _has_ happened mingling with what he _wants_ to happen. He promised to be gentle, too, so that is right out. But Dog is not sure he knows how to be gentle, with his calloused hands so clumsy, or with his form so much larger than hers.

“Dog will obey,” he grates, unsure how to tell her what he wants. He is not sure what he wants himself, so how can he possibly communicate that? All he knows is that he wants her to make those happy moans again, and to not be bruised or bleeding by morning.

“Don’t you ever get tired of people telling you what to do?” She is blinking now, troubled. Taking one of his hands in her own, she squeezes. So strange to be offered comfort by one so small, but it is all the more welcome for that.

He shrugs, continuing their walk towards the station. “Only when it is someone I do not like. I like you. I like you a lot.”

Jinx grins, giving his hand one last squeeze before releasing. “I like you too, Dog.”

“I never want to…” The word sticks in his throat, and he forces his way around it. “Never want to un-remember you.”

She, who has already forgotten so much, gives him a gentle smile. But there is sadness in her eyes, visible yet remote as starlight. “I hope it never comes to that.”

Once they safely return to the station, she starts fixing her own dinner. Dog has already eaten several Ghost people, but his stomach still gurgles at the appetizing scent of Salisbury steak being heated over the plate. Jinx is pickier, muttering about how she wishes she had some fresh peppers or prickly pear, if not fresh brahmin steak—but she eats the meal anyway, dividing it into two roughly equal portions. One is for her, and the other is for Dog. As promised, she pulls the tinned peaches out for dessert. Bathed in light syrup, they leave a slick sweetness on her fingers as she cleans the can.

Working on impulse and an attempt to displace his natural hungers, he leans in to lick her hand. She giggles, pulling away, but he catches her wrist. He does not attempt to pull her back, but simply holds, hoping this is gentle enough for her to understand he is trying to play, not demand like God. God is growling in the basement, shouting to mount her and get it over with, but Dog _wants_ to be gentle, wants her to want him, but mostly wants God to shut up…

“Trying to give me a tongue bath, puppy?” she asks, and there is mischief in her voice, plus a huskiness that is unfamiliar but he likes the sound of. Her eyes are half-lidded, bright and dangerous with delight.

“If you command,” he grunts, clenching his eyes shut and wishing there were a wall nearby he could bang his head against, but if he moves, he’s going to either pull her or let her go. The other voice is still screaming, and he just wants him to go away…

“I don’t want to command you, Dog,” she whispers, brushing her lips over his knuckles in a feather-light movement. “Why can’t we just make a little love? Something tender for a change?”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up…” The voice is making it hard to think, and when it’s hard to think, Dog just wants to feel pain or eat. But he can’t eat, not the little Courier…

Realization dawns, and her body grows still. Still and cold, so like death. God makes her this way too sometimes, and Dog hates himself for it. Finally, she asks the obvious question. “Is God bothering you?”

Her voice is gentle, but firm—and he flounders for it, trying to shut out everything but the feel of her skin and the sound of her voice. Nodding, he pleads “Talk more. Command me. Dog needs a master.”

She is quiet for a time, and he is afraid she won’t do it, that she’ll be disgusted and will want nothing more to do with him. He is terrified that from now on, only God will be touching her and holding her, because Dog cannot be nor do what she needs…

When she finally speaks, it is everything he wanted, her warm voice ringing with authority. “Fine. But my _first_ command is that you let me know if you are uncomfortable with anything, or want to stop. Do not be afraid to talk to me, Dog.” When he opens his eyes again, she is standing before him, straight and proud and staring him down. The force of her gaze humbles him, and he feels the other voice recede, muttering disquietedly. “Second command…” Here, that devilish smile plays across her lips, and she looks so pleased that he is dimly happy that he can give her such joy, even inadvertently. “I want you to call me ‘Mistress’ whenever I give you a command, to let me know you heard me. Understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he moans, voice low as he feels himself stiffening again.

Giggling, she reaches for her armor’s shoulder strap with her free hand, tugging the buckle loose. “Dog, I want you to start on that tongue bath. Clean off my hand, then work on my breasts.” With that clear direction, he barely remembers to say “Yes, Mistress,” before lathering his tongue over her palm, licking in the crevices between the knuckles, and suckling on her fingers in an eager frenzy that has her hastily yelp “Careful! No teeth!” before he restrains himself. He is careful to lick off every droplet of peach syrup before focusing on the clean scent and taste of her skin. She is like an earthy spice, faint and warm like bread on the back of his tongue.

She withdraws her hand, and struggles out of her stealth suit with fingers that seem shakier than usual. Dog whines low in his throat, unsure if perhaps he accidentally hurt her. Hesitantly, he asks, “Your hand all right?” His confusion is not dispelled by her nod.

“I am excited, Dog. Sometimes my hands shake a little when I’m happy or excited,” she explains. Giving a sly grin, she elaborates. “I shook a lot last night, do you remember? But I promise you, Dog, I like you much more than the other one.”

God is groaning in the basement, but easily dispelled by Dog’s surge of pride. “Yes, Mistress. Dog likes you too.” Last night may have been God’s night, but this is _Dog’s_ night with her, and the thought fills him like fresh meat in his belly.

She finishes stripping out of her clothing, body still covered in bruises and bite marks, and clears a desk with a casual sweep of her arms. With the debris still clattering on the floor, she hops backward to sit on the desk. Dog needs no further invitation, leaning over her to nuzzle at her neck. His lips slip over the cool metal of her collar, then trace down to her breasts. He does not really understand why she needs him to clean her here, since she’s not really dirty, but she tastes nice and the tang of her sweat and leather fills his nostrils. He takes extra care over each of her bruises, licking her as if his tongue might erase all signs of God’s brutality.

He is rewarded with her moans, whimpering softly as she starts urging him lower. He lips gently down her belly, thrusting his broad tongue into her navel in a sudden gesture that makes her giggle uncontrollably. Liking the sound, he does it again before she scolds “That tickles, Dog! Stop!”

“Yes, Mistress,” he breathes into the fur covering her sex. Fascinated by the dark curls (so much darker than the hair on her head and shaped so differently) he probes his tongue into them. The source of her sweet musk is a little lower down, and clear fluid is dripping down her thighs. It does not smell of blood, so he tastes it curiously. Satisfied with the flavor (it tastes of _her_ after all) he continues licking. She is so soft and warm everywhere, but this is even softer, and he loves the way she squirms, squeezing her thighs about his head.

“Dog, can you find the clit?” she asks breathily. He is not sure what that is, but there is a soft spot that makes her _really_ squeeze, so he licks it. Her scream of “Oh, yes you can!” is his reward. With the warmth of her thighs clenched about him, it is a little harder to move, but he starts alternating broad, firm strokes of his tongue with teasing laps, circling about the tender nub of flesh until she is crying out again, screaming and reaching behind her to grab the table. Grinding herself against his face, she calls “Dog, I’m coming!”

Screaming and moaning like that, he does not think she is going anywhere, but her entire body shakes uncontrollably before she collapses, panting heavily. She seems tired, so he stops licking, instead trailing kisses up her belly again. His pants hurt, and she is very inviting, lolled back on the table with her legs still spread, but the memory of her below God is too strong, making him uncomfortable.

“Dog, why don’t you take off your pants? And let’s get to a bed; I want to be comfortable for this,” she says, but the sharp tone of command is gone and God is getting louder again, so he clutches his head, grunting with the effort of concentration. She bites her lip anxiously, and then stills her features into a serene mask. “Dog, I am _demanding_ that you take off your pants and sit on the bed. I’ll be getting on top of you.”

And just like that, the pain is gone. “Yes, Mistress.” He does not worry about being careful with his trousers, simply unbuttoning and shuffling out of them on his way to the small room that has been serving as her bedroom for the last few days. The bed creaks alarmingly as he sits back, rusting springs and metal frame groaning under his weight, but it still holds. He sits with his feet on the floor, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his throbbing erection poking from his lap.

“Sit back now,” she whispers, but her eyes are still commanding, so he obeys with a murmured “Yes, Mistress” and groans as she straddles his lap. She drops a leather belt onto the bed beside them, but he is distracted by his cock pressing between their bodies, her belly so warm and soft but suddenly not what he wants. As if reading his mind, she winks up at him and presses a gentle finger to his lips. “Be patient, Dog.”

He barely remembers to give her the expected reply (“Yes, Mistress”) before she leans in, kissing the head of his penis with wet lips. Breathing hard through his mouth, he realizes that pleasure is even better than pain at blocking out the voice, and that epiphany in itself makes him groan with pleasure. Her mouth is hot and slick, wrapping over his shaft and suckling with a fervor that reminds him of hunger, just like his, but then she is up and crawling on top and sliding down on him and _oh_ it feels so much better inside of her…

Slippery and warm as she is, she is still so very small, and only a little piece of him is inside her. She groans impatiently, rising up and lowering herself, measuring victory in slow inches gained. He remembers how God had slammed himself into her, so he _knows_ she can take more, but she had been bleeding too, so maybe this is better. He still whines impatiently, trying to will himself to stillness so that he won’t hurt her.

“Ah… Dog, I’m going to bind your wrists. Just… just to help remind you who is in control tonight, all right?” Her voice sounds distant, echoing faintly through the haze of lust that fills his brain. “Put your hands together, right here between us.”

He obeys, forgetting her title, and earns a sharp nip above his left nipple. She can’t really do any damage with her small teeth, but the burst of pain helps remind him of his place. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Good Dog,” she praises, wrapping the belt around his wrists and tightening the buckle. Twisting experimentally, he realizes he can easily break the thin strap. Judging from her wry smile, she realizes it too. “I know you’re very strong, Dog, but this is part of the game. Try not to break the binding.”

“I won’t, Mistress.” The words are whispered fervently, but he is still hungry for her touch, and whimpers as she slowly lowers herself down. Finally, his entire length is sheathed in her form, and she just rocks back and forth, moaning softly. After a few torturous moments of just that, she reaches down with one hand to the junction of her own thighs, rubbing frantically as she starts bouncing up and down.

With his hands tied between them, Dog can do little more than tilt his hips, leaning back as he savors this wonderful, unfamiliar sensation. Watching her lithe form move on top of him, he fights the urge to grab her hips and slam her down again. Instead, he worries at the belt tying his wrists, testing the strength and trembling with the exertion it takes to _not_ break it in two. It keeps him occupied, something to fight against so that the power of her wet heat and tight sex won’t cause him to lose all control. Despite how little he is moving, he feels sweat drip down his back and bead at his temples, the leather strap biting into his wrists as he tries frantically to obey her, be a good Dog and let his mistress take control…

“Sweet Dog. I bet you’re about ready to blow, aren’t you?” she asks, voice ragged as she lays a gentle kiss on his chest.

He cannot muster a proper response, only groaning with frustration.

“Just a little longer…” Jinx whispers, tightening her legs around him and squeezing his arms. “I’m just… just one last…” Whatever she is trying to say gets lost in another loud scream, crying his name as she trembles about him. He feels an answering tremble triggered by her lust, and howls as it explodes outward. The belt bursts, buckle parting from the leather as he spreads his arms out to wrap around her, just trying to hold her close and keep her locked to him in this final moment of ecstasy.

Her cheek is damp with sweat, pressed against the wall of his chest as she sighs in contentment.

“Thank you for playing along with the belt,” she murmurs, exhaling slowly. Her breath feels cool against his sheen of perspiration, and he relishes the feeling.

“Yes, Mistress.”

Chuckling warmly, she shakes her head. The slight motion tickles against him, but he squeezes her tighter. “We don’t have to keep playing that game, Dog. It was a lot of fun, though.”

“But Dog _belongs_ to Courier Jinx,” he protests. “Always belong to Jinx.”“Tempting as it is to have this magnificent figure at my beck and call,” she sighs, “I think you’ve had enough owners, Dog.” There is pity in her voice, and her eyes are like searchlights, seeking answers to questions he does not understand.

“But _want_ Jinx.”

“I want you too, but…” Her voice trails off, and she shakes her head briskly. “We can always talk about that later. Let’s just go to sleep. Will you hold me?” she asks wistfully.

He nods, lifting her off his lap and lying down on the bed. She nestles against him, tiny body fitting against the curve of his form. Her soft breathing is like a lullaby, and his last drowsy thought is that she was not calling anyone else’s name tonight.

Just Dog.


	3. Letting Go

She straddles his face, wet pussy grinding against his tongue while her thighs clasp his cheeks. He groans below her, lapping obediently while his massive hands support her upper body, squeezing her breasts and letting the curve of her belly graze his forehead.

“Oh, oh fuck, yeah, please keep doing that…” she moans, sitting back and letting her partner take more of her weight. He just grunts obediently, and she starts losing the ability to speak, words burning away as a fire builds inside her, roaring and crackling through her entire body…

She screams wordlessly, trembling in the aftershocks of orgasm. The world is hazy, blurry and wonderful as she gasps for breath, squirming out of his grip and collapsing on top of him. His erection presses between her legs, gently bumping the lips of her sex without pushing for entry. Rather than force the issue, he simply sniffs her hair, sighing contentedly.

“Jinx happy?” he asks. Skin to skin and covered in sweat as they are, the reverberations of his voice sends an echoing thrum through her form.

She traces an idle hand over his broad chest, fingers skating over the letters carved into his flesh. “Yes, Dog. Very,” she murmurs, underlining his name as she speaks it. “I’m very happy.”

 _And very confused,_ but she does not dare speak that out loud. It would be cruel to Dog, and just provoke God. By all accounts, sleeping with the nightkin—regardless of which personality is in charge at any given moment—should be one of the stupidest decisions she’ll ever live to regret. And she is well aware that she has a whole history of stupid decisions that she has already forgotten. Her own scars, licking across her scalp and over her calloused hands, are testament to the fact that she has made more than her fair share of mistakes, but she does not even have the experience to show for it.

There is no way she will emerge from this relationship unmarred, either physically or emotionally. She already has bruises and fresh blood from her night with God. Dog, while tender, will probably break her heart when it’s time to say goodbye, especially since Dog probably won’t even understand why they are so bad for one another.

His very obedience—the reason she feels surprisingly safe with him, even knowing he could snap her in half with one hand—means that following her will just break him even more than he already is. While Jinx likes to think she would be better for him than Father Elijah, Dog will never be entirely free of his need for an authority figure. And God would never forgive her for chaining Dog to her like that.

She does not even understand why she finds him attractive. Even if one likes thick muscles and scarred flesh, an eight-foot tall lover with purple skin and the ability to disappear at will _should_ be a deal-breaker for most people. That’s not even looking at the prominent scar split across his head, the mismatched look of his eyes, or the fact that he eats _everything_ when hungry. Which is always. And includes things that look entirely too human to be comfortable, and she strongly suspects _has_ included humans in the past.

But there are times when he holds her, or his shadow falls across her form, that it triggers a strange feeling of synchrony, a blurred image of what _has_ happened neatly overlapping with what _is_ happening. An echo of her past resonating into her present, ghost-memories haunting her mind and making her wonder just who and what she was before Benny’s bullets ripped through her skull…

Even if she did not get orgasms out of the deal, she might have kept sleeping with Dog (and God) just for those moments of connection, despite the lost memories trickling like water through her hands the harder she tries to grasp them.

She is losing herself in the words, the thoughts—time for action again. Otherwise, the unanswered questions and the miscellaneous answers without corresponding questions (‘Jinx’ was a childhood nickname. My father died in front of me, and I could do nothing. I was a Wanderer long before I was a courier…) rattle through her bullet-addled brain, and she will be paralyzed by the terror of that patchwork history.

She kisses his neck, the cold metal of her collar clinking against the chain about his shoulders as she starts pressing her folds against his cock. He sighs, and tilts his hips to allow himself easier entry while she stretches herself about him. Slowly, gently (and this too is a ghost-memory, the eerie sensation of remembered hands on her hips overlapping with his, creating a strange feeling of being with _two_ lovers at the same time) she eases herself down. He squeezes her ass (and remembered hands squeeze her breasts, thumbs flicking over her taut nipples), groaning as she starts nibbling the tender flesh beneath his jaw (and the remembered voice breathes her name), and she rocks herself up and down, pressing her thighs against his hips.

“Please, Dog, just lift a little… ooh yeah, that’s good…” she sighs, but he is already moving to please her before she even finishes the sentence. Dog might not be the brighter of the two personalities, but he has a certain level of physical intuition that God lacks. The errant thought triggers a slip of her tongue as she whispers, “Oh God, yes…”

And abruptly, it is no longer obedient Dog beneath her. Jinx has a scant moment to recognize the shift in posture and the set of his lips as it turns from slack obedience to down-turned sneer, trapping her wrists in one hand and almost suspending her in his lap as he sits up. She tries to speak, to form a defense that will soothe his rage and let him go back to the basement, but he shoves his thumb in her mouth, gagging her as he presses it down on her tongue.

 _I thought only the recording would let him out!_ The thought fills her with panic, but she forces herself to stillness, resisting the urge to bite God’s finger. Trembling slightly, she is not entirely sure if this is anxiety or an unexpected turn-on to have the tables so thoroughly flipped.

“I see you missed me,” God murmurs, dark amusement glinting in his eyes. Even the voice, cool calculation under a thin veneer of mannered speech, is drastically different from Dog’s cruder phrasings and rough tones. Gently, he rubs his thumb over her tongue, a tiny thrusting motion that forces her to suck her lips over the joint in mock fellatio. “Had enough of commanding Dog, and ready to take your place beneath me again?”

There is still a constellation of bruises on her thighs, rosette prints from God’s hands, and at least one clear bite-mark on her shoulder. She does not think it wise to add to that collection before she’s even had a chance to heal, but cannot shape the words for protest with his finger in her mouth. So she shakes her head, watching his eyes narrow even as his lips turn upward, the self-satisfaction of his smile in stark contrast to the anger behind his gaze.

“You will feel differently once we start moving again,” he chuckles, pulling her wrists upward and forcing her body to follow along as she slides up his erection. It hurts, her shoulders pulled in an uncomfortable angle, but he fortunately goes slowly enough it is only a mild discomfort.

“Suck my thumb like it’s my cock,” he growls against her ear, sharp teeth pressing against the outer shell. As she tries to turn her head away, he only seizes down, fingers cupping under her chin and preventing escape. Every fiber of her being is screaming to play along, just comply until she gets a chance to escape or scream for Dog to come back…

…except for her traitorous cunt. The abrupt shift in sensations and God’s unique brand of domination has triggered a near geyser between her legs, juices slicking down and smearing her thighs. From the wet smack of his flesh to hers, it’s even trickling as far as his testicles. God just laughs softly, thrusting upward and it _hurts_ , her flesh forced to accommodate his, wet balls pressed to her ass, but she still can’t stop herself from moaning around his thumb.

“Good girl. Now suck. Use your tongue.”

Mutely, Jinx starts obeying, tongue swirling about his calloused thumb. Bobbing her head forward, she suckles more intensely, eyes flicking upward in an attempt to gauge God’s reaction. He is watching her intently, locking his gaze on hers until she is forced to avert her eyes out of shame.

God chuckles, the faintly malevolent sound sending chills up Jinx’s spine even as more heat pools in her belly. “No, keep looking at me. I like seeing you submit,” he murmurs, and for just one heart-stopping moment, he sounds thoughtful, almost tender, and Jinx wonders if perhaps he is growing some sort of affection for her. Dog and God would be so much more manageable if they were on the same page, at least…

And that thought abruptly shatters to pieces as God grunts, “I want to put it in your ass tonight.” He lifts her again, still holding her by the wrists, and her shoulders are _screaming_ as they are wrenched almost out of their sockets and his slick cock is pressing against the curve of her ass and there is _no way_ this is happening, not without _much_ more lube and preparation than God is willing to give…

So she bites his thumb. Hard. Like an animal seizing ahold of a foe’s leg, she clenches her teeth down, trying to press her incisors together through the thick pad of his thumb. When he howls and tries to shake her off, he only succeeds in knocking her about like a rag doll, her body gone limp except for the tight muscles of her jaw and neck as she struggles to maintain her savage bite. Finally, he reverses tactics, shoving his thumb further into her mouth—an unexpected move, her teeth raking over his skin as he nearly chokes her, causing her to gag and spit his hand out. She tastes the faint coppery tang of blood and something sour on the back of her throat.

“You will learn your _place_ , little scavenger,” he growls, the deathly quiet and icy tones somehow more terrifying than raising his voice. At least he has dropped her hands, allowing her to massage some semblance of life back into her abused shoulders. “I _will_ fuck your ass, and you will _love_ it. Every time I am _not_ in one of your orifices, you will feel empty and despair.”

“Time out. Time _out_ ,” Jinx snaps, holding her hands up and pressing the palm of one to the fingers of the other in an impromptu ‘T’. “Fun is fun, but we need to take a break and look at the rules before we play.” A nagging voice tells her this must be the _worst_ sports analogy ever, but she does not care. As far as she is concerned, she is entitled to any sort of ill-conceived sports metaphor if it keeps a dick the size of a baseball bat out of her ass.

Forcing herself to meet his gaze with all the ire she can manage, she growls, “God, I let you out of the cage on accident, but I can bring Dog out just as easily. I can trigger either of you without needing the recordings.” It is purely bluff, born out of desperation and a sneaking suspicion as to the nature of his fractured personalities. But judging from the way he stiffens, barely-masked panic going across his features, she struck home—and grins like a Deathclaw. “I’m in your head, God. Just like I’m in Dog’s. And if you hurt me—really hurt me—you’ll be hurting Dog too. You want to protect him, don’t you?”

God’s eyes are narrowing, lips twisting. Dog is probably rattling the bars, and Jinx presses on. Two against one are the best odds she’s going to get.

“So you have to keep _me_ safe too. That means respecting hard limits. I like playing rough, but I want you to pay attention when I tell you to _stop_. And I mean it. I am… I’m not just a toy for you. We are partners out in the Sierra Madre, and we have to be partners when we’re fucking too. Or this just isn’t going to work.” The words splash through her lips like water spilling on parched earth. “I know how you both work. I know Dog, and I know _you._ ”

Pressing a hand to his chest, she pulls her shoulders back, thrusting her chin up in an effort to command as much authority as she can from this seated position.

“Dog hungers. For food. For me,” she murmurs, letting her voice grow thick and hypnotic. “You crave control. I know your greeds.”

“And you cannot let go,” he growls, but at least he is not seizing her again. His cock is still hard, pressing upward against her thighs as she straddles his lap, but he is no longer pushing.

She tilts her head quizzically, trying to parse the statement. “I don’t quite follow.”

He chuckles, twisting his hand between them and pressing his bleeding thumb against her breasts. Tracing a crimson smear, he elaborates. “I know your greed too, little scavenger. You grasp. You seek. You hold. You cannot let go of your memories, few as they are. You think you understand us—“ he snorts, gesturing to himself—and by extension, Dog. “—but I understand you too. We remind you of some forgotten lover, and that’s not fair either.”

“So you propose fairness?” she asks, shivering and resisting the urge to wipe the drying blood off her torso. Warm as the Sierra Madre is, the pebbling of her nipples has more to do with the chill he sends through her than the ambient temperature.

“If that’s what it takes for us to get what we need, yes.”

Two minds, one body—Jinx can’t hold back a choked giggle, realizing that no matter whether it’s God or Dog she takes to bed, it will always be an inadvertent _ménage a trois_. But at least acknowledging it might take some of the danger out.

“So what do you and Dog need?” she asks, slowly exhaling. She hadn’t even realized she was holding her breath.

“Dog needs to know that you care for him, and won’t be leaving us once the Old Man is dead,” God says bluntly, though grimacing as if the words are sour on his lips. Restlessly, he shifts his hands under the curve of her buttocks, kneading the flesh. It is hard, almost painful—but from the disinterest on his face, this has little to do with lust.

Biting her lip, Jinx decides to tolerate it for now. It feels more like a _very_ firm massage, and with his dick still hard beneath her, it is actually a bit tantalizing… But before she can allow herself to get too distracted, she corrals her thoughts back to the matter at hand. “I would not… like to leave you. Either of you,” she amends, just to make sure it’s explicit. And it is true, even if for reasons beyond affection; she is terrified that if she leaves Dog alone, whole communities might disappear, devoured by his unrelenting hunger. God unshackled is also a disturbing thought, and she does not trust either of them to keep the other in line. But picking her words is difficult, and she weaves through it as delicately as stepping through a minefield. “Dog has had too many masters already. I am afraid I would just be the next one to hold the leash.”

“You are better than our previous owners. You might be better for him,” God grits out, so painfully that he might as well be pulling teeth. Jinx reads that as tacit approval; God confessing that _he_ would not mind Jinx holding Dog’s leash. “I am a poor moral compass. At least your intentions are generally good.”

“’Generally.’” She tastes that word, wondering just how many of her decisions are truly altruistic, or motivated by sheer survival. There is a level of overlap, to be sure. Much like God manhandling her; yes, she enjoys it on one level, but on another, she’s aware that keeping God sexually satisfied keeps her safer in the long run. “I can take that, I suppose. But what do you need from me?”

“Obedience. Submission.” He pulls his lips back in a lascivious grin, touching his bitten thumb to the corner of her mouth. “Your ass. Or failing that…” The dark humor vanishes, and he wraps his arms around her in a firm embrace. It would be comforting if Dog were the one holding her instead, but with his penis still hard below her and his arms tense, it just reminds her of her own vulnerability. “I want you to let go of your past. Whatever you thought you were, or who you think we remind you of—let that go. Begin again. Dog does not deserve your pity-fucks, hoping he will jar a memory loose. And _I_ want your attention solely on me when we play, little scavenger.”

“You make this sound almost like a real relationship. What’s next, wine and roses?” she quips, attempting to shrug his arms off.

Instead, he tightens his grip, squeezing her to his chest. “This is real for Dog. If you hurt him… all our deals are off,” he growls, hot breath stirring the hairs on her scalp.

Stilling herself, realizing any struggle will just tighten the cage of his arms, she responds, “And if you hurt me… the same. I like Dog. I trust Dog. I do not trust you.” A scrap of half-remembered conversation flits through her brain, but at least it’s a solid memory, one she _remembers_ living even if perhaps a few details are lost.

After recruiting Beatrix for the Wrangler, she remembered asking the ghoul dominatrix about her work. It had been mostly morbid curiosity, to be sure, but Beatrix had been surprisingly educational. One of her lessons might come in handy right about now.

“We can’t keep having this kind of struggle every time we play, God.”

He laughs, a smug smile toying across his lips. “The struggle _is_ the play, little scavenger.”

“Exactly! You like when I… when I fight. When I struggle. It’s no fun unless you get to break me a little, isn’t that right?” It might be unfair, but she lowers her voice to a husky whisper, licking her lips and looking up through half-lidded eyes.

Deranged Nightkin or no, some biological responses remain ingrained. He eyes the wetness of her lips with a predictable hunger, but chuckles even as he realizes her deliberate manipulation. Interpreting that as agreement, she presses on.

“So… you would like it if I _really_ fought. Maybe said ‘no’ a little.”

“You say ‘no’ now. But you still enjoy it when my cock is in you,” he says dismissively.

“You don’t _respect_ the no. But I want… I want you to promise you will take me seriously. I can fight with you, but there are limits. Rule one,” she states, fixing her eyes on his. “No sticking things in me without some lube or warm-up. Two, no actual injuring me. I need to walk, and you need me to work on getting us into the casino.”

There is enough of a pause to let her know he is mulling it over, but he still laughs. “You could still walk the first night.”

“I don’t want to need stimpaks after sex, God. A little biting, a little bruising—I can deal with that. But we need a safeword, something you will _promise_ to respect. If I say it, I want you to stop. Immediately. Can you promise me that?”

_And can I trust that promise?_

It takes him longer to respond than she really feels comfortable with, but perhaps Dog is arguing on her behalf. Eventually, he nods. “What will this ‘safeword’ be, little scavenger?”

Impulsively, she says the first word that comes to mind that makes her think of safety. “Fox.”

His jaw tightens, and he shakes his head emphatically. “No. Absolutely not. You need to let go.”

Letting go…. Somehow, that word should be triggering more of her past. There is something there that God knows and she does not, but Jinx cannot follow the thread. But with all the demands being made back and forth, at least this is a small step she can take to show her cooperation.

 _Let go. Begin again_.

“Goodsprings,” she offers. The town where it all began (again) for her seems a fitting name. He smiles, and it is no longer an expression out of a nightmare—he looks pleased, and she breathes a sigh of relief.

“Goodsprings,” he mutters, tasting the name on his tongue. “If you say ‘Goodsprings’ while we are playing, I will stop. But if you say ‘no,’ or ‘stop,’ I can keep going?”

“Yes. As long as you remember the other two rules,” she says firmly.

He releases his arms, letting them hang loosely from his side. Carefully, he presses his hand under her chin, turning her face to examine her profile. “You are an odd woman, to negotiate how you want to be controlled.”

“I know what I want. And even better, I know what I _don’t_ want.” _And best of all, I had a ghoul dominatrix explain a little of her work to me_ …. That goes unsaid though, as it would only raise more questions than she feels like answering at this point. “Plus, you benefit too,” she points out. “I’m sure this will help Dog feel more… comfortable, with what we do.”

He laughs at that, caressing her cheek in a gesture so Dog-like that it makes her shiver. “That is a benefit, yes.”

His cock is still pressing against her ass, but she is pretty sure she just ruined whatever moment they were building up to—even if said moment was going to involve forced sodomy—and starts trying to squirm off his lap. “Good. Then let’s just go to sleep and call it a night…”

“No. We’re not done,” he murmurs, lifting her by her waist and resettling her so that his cock is squeezed between their bellies. “I still want to have sex.”

She can still feel her own wetness between her legs, but all desire has fled. Slowly, with every impression of knowing _exactly_ what he’s doing, he brushes his nails along the nape of her neck with a back-handed stroke. As she shivers under the light touch, he twists his hand through her hair, pulling the scalp taut in a gesture that is absolutely, guaranteed to be all God. But then he kisses her upturned cheek, traces his tongue over her jaw, and _that_ feels like Dog. The eerie feeling of double-synchrony is returning, though instead of Dog (and God) overlaid over a half-remembered form, this time Dog _and_ God are working together.

Distinct as the two personalities may be, they do share one body—and one goal, in this instance.

 _Sex as enticement for re-integration of the psyche. Who would have thought_? The dizzying idea spins through her mind, and she laughs with the force of it. The laughter changes mid-tone, from absurdity to a pleased gasp as Dog kisses her neck, high above the collar, and God is squeezing her ass, cupping and lifting so that one finger can slip into her wet folds and elicit a moan. She knows God is still pushing her limits when one finger quickly becomes two, then three, but she takes those without complaint, just leaning forward to offer better access.

His fingers thrust upward and inward, causing her to gasp as he hits just a little too hard against her inner walls. Dog leans into her, carefully kissing and licking her breasts clean of blood, but it is God’s eyes and lips that smirk at her.

“I want to make you scream. I want you to fight me,” he chuckles, nipping the tender flesh of her breasts. Then he nips again and again, creating a chain-like pattern of marks across her breasts; another sign of the strange, convoluted nature of their relationship. “If you say your word, I will stop.”

Shivering under the weight of his teeth, she nods. “Just… let Dog know I want this. I want… I want to hurt a little, sometimes. I like to be told what to do.” Her breath catches as he slips one of his slick fingers out of her cunt, tracing back to the puckered ring of her anus. “Just let him know. Please tell him not to be—“ ‘Scared’ might alarm him, so she hastily substitutes another word. “—worried, for me.”

“He knows,” God groans, impatient with need. “He is listening. I want to fuck you now. Can we start?”

In response, Jinx screams—and just like that, the game is on. Excitement courses through her like raw whiskey, burning and tingling through her extremities as she starts pushing away from him. God is too physical, too strong to allow this, instead pinning her close to him and pressing his finger against her tight hole. Groaning and trembling, she is forced to hold still as he forces his finger through. His digit is so soaked in her own lubrication that there is little resistance beyond the tightness of her outer sphincter, but once in…

She moans against her will, both loving the sensation and hating how degraded she feels. But even in the shame there is a perverse sort of joy, a chance to finally, _finally_ let someone else take the lead. As the Courier, forced—and she would call it forced, even if others won’t, because her own sense of honor is too strong to leave all the broken pieces of the Mojave where they lie—to make decisions that impact entire factions and cities, she is used to being in charge. People know her, know her reputation, and look to her for answers.

God only wants to fuck her. It makes for a refreshing change.

With one finger in her ass and two in her cunt, God simply contents himself with rocking his hand back and forth, feeling her stretch to accommodate the unfamiliar motion.

 _Slow. He’s going slow. He’s warming me up_ … she thinks numbly, realizing that (wonder of wonders) God is keeping his word about following her rules. The thought pleases her, and she cries a little louder to show her appreciation. He watches her carefully, examining her as disinterestedly as a scientist documenting a new species of insect. Only the ragged edge of his breathing and the hardness of his cock betray that he is just as interested in the outcome of their ‘game’ as she is.

“I… I hate that,” she breathes, the lie coming out easily through her soft smile. His eyes narrow, then crinkle with a foreign emotion—pleasure? – once he realizes she is playing along. “Please stop fingering my ass.”

He grunts “no” in response, baring his teeth in a self-satisfied smile. His grip tightens on her arms, squeezing harder as he transfers another finger from her cunt to her ass. She winces, not all her pain entirely feigned as she is forced to stretch, but then he starts _moving_ , thrusting up again…

And suddenly there is nothing in her, no more fingers in either orifice as he pulls out. She almost cries in frustration, suddenly bereft of all that lovely stimulation.

“I _told_ you you’d feel empty,” God laughs. It is not a kind laugh, even with their new relationship. But that casual cruelty is part of what she finds enticing, the ability to flirt with danger while dancing on the edge.

She is absolutely soaking wet, trembling with desire. Her cunt aches, empty and futilely clenching.

“Please fuck me,” she whispers, raw with need and unable to think of anything more eloquent to say. She has charmed secrets out of strangers and brokered  impossible treaties between warring combatants—but now, in the face of her own hormones, all the words fly away, burning like ash on the breeze.

“I like it better when you fight,” he growls, the words rumbling past his throat with a feral edge, but then he _grabs_ her, hands squeezing her arms and lifting up. In one sudden thrust, he impales her on his cock, causing her to scream again. Rough and savage as this is, there is no way an outsider would interpret this as consensual. Not with the way she beats her fists against his chest, or the way he bites her ear—and she nearly cries ‘Goodsprings,’ then, terrified he will rip through the cartilage, but he recognizes the danger just in time and eases off—and _certainly_ not with the way he thrusts those fingers back in her ass, feeling his cock and fingers almost grinding against each other through the thin membrane of her vaginal wall.

It feels good, deliriously good, even with the edge of pain and the soreness that each upward thrust brings on. She manages to choke out, “God, stop it! You’re hurting me!” in hopes that he’ll be satisfied with this token fight, but right as she is calling ‘stop,’ she feels the wave of an orgasm rocking through her. If anything, the pain accentuates the pleasure, providing a counterpoint and heightening the sensations. Screaming, she feels her toes curling as she starts tensing, body tighter than the spring on a switchblade as her legs jackknife against God’s hips…

“You’re so fucking tight around my cock.” Breathing heavily, his muted words are whispered into Jinx’s ear, but God does not seem to be coming himself. Instead, he keeps his fingers moving— small, subtle motions, barely more than rocking an inch or so into her rectum—and she feels herself tightening again, her ass spasming nearly as much as her pussy. A faintly clinical portion of her reflects that _yes_ , the muscle spasms triggered by orgasm include the anal sphincter as well, but she had never known it would be that powerful. Judging from God’s grunt of surprise, even he hadn’t been expecting this reaction, his fingers squirming as if struggling for escape until she finishes screaming.

Collapsed against him, gasping for breath as she feels the sweat cool on her body, Jinx can’t put up even a mock struggle when he finally lifts her up, flipping her onto her back and adjusting himself on the worn bed. Bracing himself on his elbows, he hovers over her body, warm breath commingling with hers as they stare at one another, noses almost touching.

“I _will_ fuck your ass, so don’t think you’re escaping,” he groans. “Just… not tonight. Not yet.”

“Oh, I’m not complaining,” she says muzzily, crossing her wrists over her head in mute surrender. He takes his cue, cupping her wrists under one hand as he kisses her mouth hungrily. The gesture might be learned from Dog, but the way he bites her lip and makes her gasp certainly is all God, and the way he presses her beneath him, almost crushing her with his weight and solid bulk, is _definitely_ God.

He gives her only a few more thrusts, sheathing himself in her slick folds and withdrawing only at the end. Blinking in surprise, she feels him straddle her chest, his wet cock bouncing against her tits. For a moment she thinks he is going to shove himself in her mouth, but other than a briefly slapping her lips with the head of his penis, he makes no further contact. Instead, stroking himself and grunting, he spills his load over her face. The hot rush of semen spattering across the bridge of her nose makes her nearly gag, more out of shock and instinctive disgust than true nausea, but he silences her with a broad finger across her lips.

“Leave it,” he sighs, those two words so surprisingly weary that Jinx immediately wonders just how quiet Dog really had been during this entire exchange.

His ejaculate still dripping down her cheeks, she nods. “I… I really liked that, God. It was….” ‘Fun’ seems too trite, but she still isn’t entirely sure how she feels about this new experience. She certainly enjoyed it _during_ , but still has mixed feelings about the long-term consequences of allowing herself this freedom. “It was enjoyable.”

He looks her over, and she reflexively rubs a palm over the fresh line of bite marks on her chest.

“Do you require aftercare?” God asks hesitantly. There is uncharacteristic concern on his face, leading Jinx to speculate as to how much control Dog may have at any given time. More than she expected, at least.

“I would like to be held. I would like to feel loved—” Her breath catches, regretting that choice of words as soon as it escapes, but she presses on.  “—tonight. Especially after that.” She pauses, swallowing. “I understand if you would rather have Dog do it.”

God pauses, meeting her eyes with an unfathomable expression. Leaning in, she catches the faint scent of blood and musk just before he kisses her again. It is barely more than a brush of his lips against hers, but she feels down in the core of her that this is God’s kiss, without Dog to guide or take over.

“You _are_ loved. But Dog will care for you,” he mutters. Again, she watches that strange transformation of two personalities in one body, his shoulders slumping and the lines about his eyes softening. It is still God’s form—and Dog’s—but God has gone back to the basement, letting Dog roam free.

“Jinx is safe?” he immediately demands, looking her over and sniffing her carefully. He licks his tongue over her breasts, tickling the tiny grooves left by God’s teeth.

“Yes. Very safe, especially with you to take care of me,” she responds sleepily, sitting up and leaning against his shoulder.

“Did God hurt you?”

She bites her lip, carefully arranging her words before speaking. “Only as much as I wanted. Dog, you—you like when I tell you what to do. Sometimes, I like when God tells me what to do. Even if I fight. It’s… it’s a game.”

“And you are not saying that just because he kept Dog in the cage?” he asks bluntly. She feels her eyebrow rise at that, not having expected Dog to understand consent or coercion quite that well. Then again, for someone who spent most of his life being controlled by one authority figure or another…

“No. I really enjoyed it. But I also enjoy when you hold me. You make me feel safe and warm,” she reassures, wrapping her arms about his shoulders. He snuffles against her ear, seeming to find solace in her explanation.

When they finally lay together, bodies fitting in a spoon that is becoming increasingly familiar, she reflects on the strange turn of the past few days. God—and Dog—as lovers. Two lovers, one body. Two sides to the same coin…

Squirming uncomfortably, she chews her lip while mulling it over. The small movement causes Dog to nuzzle closer, draping his arm over her protectively.

Dog is cleverer than she gives him credit for, she realizes. And God has moments of genuine concern, even if he is still trying to manipulate her for his own ends. Even if it is easier to treat them as separate entities, they are still two halves of the same fractured personality.

 _And eventually, I owe it to them… him… to help him heal_ , she reflects pensively. Jacobstown would be a good place for them, as long as Dog doesn’t think it means goodbye. Or Keene does not recruit God for his own not-entirely-benign ends. Or if they even make it to Jacobstown, instead of dying in this toxic dead man’s dream…

She is thinking ahead too much, juggling fears and futures that have not even happened yet. At least she fears for the future, rather than the forgotten past. But God’s warning rings in her ears—she needs to let go. With a soft sigh, she exhales, releasing her concerns and fears. Letting go.

For now, all she needs is this present moment—the warmth of Dog and God holding on to her, the pleasant soreness of her body, and this tiny oasis of safety carved out against the Villa.

All she needs is this.


	4. Dark Embraces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dog just wants Jinx to be okay.

Her body aches—shoulders tight from sharing the too-small mattress with a too-large nightkin, breasts covered in bites like chains, thighs and buttocks bruised like roses in full bloom—and she moves slowly through the Villa, trying to breathe shallowly through the cloth she wrapped around her face for some modicum of protection. The air tastes like blood and copper on the back of her tongue.

“Try to keep up,” God growls, turning as he reaches the top of yet another stairway. For a fleeting moment, she wishes she had let Dog out of the cage instead, but searching for Dean’s hidden caches requires someone with better memory than that poor beast.

“Try not to fuck me so damn hard next time, then,” she retorts, huffing her way up the steps with her arms raised for balance. Always a balancing act with the two personalities, between gentle Dog and harsh God. But neither so gentle; always something to remember.

He laughs like broken glass, yellow eyes gleaming in this hellish haze. Lazily, he reaches out with one hand—and she fights not to flinch, because she is in _control_ and they have an _agreement_ in place, and she knows he’s doing this just to provoke her—and pats her on the head, running his thumb across the bristle-sharp edges of her scalp where the hair’s growing out. He pauses over the scars licking above her ear, and then works his way back to trace over the neat surgical line stitched across the other side of her skull.

“You liked it.” A sly grin, lips curling back over gleaming teeth like a gunslinger casually polishing their weapons. “In fact, tonight—“

“—tonight’s Dog’s turn,” she interrupts, slumping against the wall as she struggles to control her breathing. Each harsh rasp feels like knives in her throat, and she only hopes that she’ll escape the Sierra Madre before the polluted air shreds her lungs. Stimpaks can only do so much, after all.

“Fair enough,” he agrees, cool and silky. She narrows her eyes at him, wondering at his easy agreement. He smirks at her. “You are not so hard to read, bad-luck girl.” Gently leaning forward, he presses dry lips to her cheek. She still cannot decide if this is true affection or merely a parody of a kiss. “I prefer my toys unbroken. Mostly.”

Gritting her teeth, she decides it’s useless to argue for now. She pushes herself away from the wall, groaning, “Fine. Keep an eye out for the handprints.”

They have a routine, between the two of them. Or possibly the three of them, depending on which personality is ascendant at any given time and how loudly the other growls while in the basement. She sweeps ahead to search for traps, deactivating them with nimble fingers while God (or Dog) handle the Ghost People that stalk these tainted streets. When they find a locked door or protected terminal, he stands guard while she coaxes it open, searching for information, bobby pins, shotgun shells, precious chems—anything that will help them leave this place alive.

And they _will_ leave this place alive.

All of them.

* * *

They retreat to the police station after scouring the residential district, Jinx tired but uninjured and God wearing fresh blood across his chest and arms. He deems his wounds too trivial to require a stimpak, and she privately agrees even though she offers anyway. But keeping God content is as much part of survival as battling the Ghost People.

“Dog? Would you like to come out for dinner?” she calls, lilting her voice in invitation. God grins at her, lifting his fingers in mockery of a wave before his shoulders slump and his jaw goes slack. Watching control shift from God to Dog is always an eerie process, even after watching it so many times before. Two men struggling in the same skin, two halves of the same whole, and she owes _both_ of them gratitude and protection. Promising not to leave Dog behind means being unable to leave God, and she uneasily reflects that must be at least part of why he is so determined to mark her during sex.

The nightkin blinks at her, eyes hazy as if emerging from a long nap, and nods. She busies herself with fixing a meal of tinned meat and ancient noodles, grateful for her strong stomach and Dog’s apparent ability to digest anything. Brahmin steak, fresh gecko, even _radroach_ would be a welcome change. So she distracts herself from the unappetizing food of the near future by spinning a fantasy of the hopefully not-so-distant days ahead.

“When we get out of here, Dog—I promise I’ll take you somewhere nice.” He gives a low grunt of pleasure, standing behind her so his shadow falls across her impromptu cooking station. Softly exhaling, she releases all the tension she carries with God. Comforted by his presence and solid bulk, she continues. “Some home-cooked meals, too. I can make a pretty mean deathclaw omelet. Hardest part’s getting the eggs, but I think you’d be able to help with that, hm?” She giggles as Dog nuzzles his lips against her cheek, broad hands circling her hips in a gesture too light to be possessive, more like reassurance that she won’t flinch away from him.

Pouring hot water into the noodles, she continues. “Vault 21 down on the Strip makes a really good brunch too. Steak and eggs, biscuits, mimosas… everything to start the day right.” Her stomach growls in punctuation, and she laughs at herself. Dog doesn’t join in, but she’s never entirely certain if he understands her sense of humor. God usually laughs, but never at the same things she does…

Nothing good lies down that path, so she steers herself back to spinning happy daydreams as she tamps the flimsy plastic top back over the noodles to let them cook.

“And the Ultra Luxe… oh, that’s _delicious_. Really high class, more than a little creepy, but they know their food.” And stopped serving ‘sweet veal,’ but she doesn’t plan on sharing that tidbit with Dog. She already suspects he’s eaten people in the past, but… nothing good lies down _that_ path either. They will survive the Sierra Madre first. “We’d have to dress up—but that could be fun. I’d get one of those prewar dresses, we could get a suit for you—I bet Mick and Ralph could fix something up.”

“You promise to take Dog?” His slow, broken cadence makes her heart melt. And this is _such_ a bad idea, for _so_ many reasons, but…

…she made a promise.

“Yes. I promised I won’t leave you behind, Dog.”

“You _want_ to take Dog?” he presses.

The words slip from her tongue before she even has a chance to weigh all the little shades of meaning between ‘promise’ and ‘want.’ “Of course I do.”

He groans contentedly, hands slipping lower, and brushes over one of the bruises on her thigh. At her wince, he stops, pulling his hands away. “Dog sorry. You are hurt?”

“Yeah. A little.” The noodles should be done now, and she stirs in a little of the preserved meat. Some protein, some carbohydrates; a balanced meal, one that her father (and father is such a funny word. It speaks of echoes and loss and screams shattering off metal walls and she knows he _died_ in front of her but the rest of the memories slip away…) would say was missing some vegetables, but alas. At least there’s food for their bellies.

Dog halts, and she can hear his gulp echo through the abandoned station. “Want to sleep tonight? No sex?”

When she turns to offer him his share of the food, the longing on his face near breaks her in two. Not disappointment or pleading, but just concern. Warmth. He is _her_ Dog, for better or worse.

“That might be a good idea,” she says hesitantly. “Just for tonight, at least.”

“Any night. Want you to feel better.”

So they eat their meal, and she offers him a bag of snack cakes when she hears his stomach growl. He still gives her the first cake, feeding her and offering his sugar-stained fingers when she swallows the last morsel. She laps slowly with her tongue, tracing from the tip to the joints one by one, circling and licking to the crevices of his hand. Under the powdered sweetness is salt and copper, a bitter aftertaste and she tries not to think too hard about the last time he washed his hands, but his low moan helps her forget that.

“Dog, I don’t think I can take you down there tonight, but if you’d like—“

He shakes his head, and she instinctively glances down to double-check herself. Yes, he is definitely aroused—or at least erect—but he continues mulishly. “Need to rest. The other was not gentle.”

She can only guess at the arguments that rage inside that battered skull, but acquiesces. “Okay. Just hold me tonight, then.”

* * *

He’s dying again.

He’s dying in front of her, her fists hammering the glass and screaming until her throat is raw, until blood’s spilling past her lips and she just _screams_ and screams a million shattered piece of her heart and she’ll _break her own arms_ if she has to because he _can’t_ die, he can’t die, because then she’ll be all alone in the world— and she resents him too, lost and bitter and betrayed that he left her all alone in that underground labyrinth, that _tomb_ where they’d break her wings and keep her trapped and where ‘procreation is your civic duty’ and she just feels so _guilty_ because he’s dying and she loves him and she hates him and—

The perspective flips, she falls through the glass as the surface shimmers into mist, re-coalescing so that she is now the one trapped inside, and her father’s nowhere to be seen.

She is the alpha and omega, the beginning of the end.

She will die in his footsteps.

This is her destiny.

* * *

And she wakes up _screaming_ , death in her ears and lies on her heart and scars that she does not remember and even more that do not mark her skin—

And she shakes, shoulders heaving and the world dark before her, the cool green radiation stripped away for red copper Cloud—

And she is so _alone_.

Until the arm circles about her, squeezing her close. Holding her against the wall of his chest, and she struggles out of instinct, feeling caged by his embrace as he murmurs, “Safe here. Is okay.” She blinks the tears out the tears, vision swimming—and for one strange moment, she thinks he’s been stained by the Cloud too, so that he’s bruise-purple rather than pale green, exchanging the toxic rad-glow for burnt chemicals—and she forgets. She forgets she has to be brave and strong, she forgets she needs to be clever and cunning, she forgets that she shouldn’t show weakness in front of God and that they’re chained together and they _can’t_ escape one another even if she wants to.

She forgets that she forgot, and as she gasps and tries to squirm from him he only tightens his grip.

“Is okay. Is safe here. Dog will guard. Dog will protect.” A litany, a promise, a plea. “Is okay.”

There are ghosts in her past, memories blurring into dreams. Dizzyingly, she wonders if the Cloud contains hallucinogens—but nothing fun, not like White Bird’s tea and laying the Ghost of She to rest. The datura experience had been just so _bizarre_ and she had been so ridiculously giddy with memory when her vision filled with rainbows that even attacking a flaming yao guai had felt like a good idea at the time. And she _remembered_ her past, then. She remembered being Jennifer Kingston and warm hands exploring her flesh, lips against hers and she _remembered_ …

…but then again, that was all drug-induced delirium.

_This_ is the present. _This_ is her eyes burning and tasting salt on her lips. This is Dog pressed against her, sheltering her in the crook of his arms as they nestle against one another. This is warm breath against her scalp, Dog whining low in his throat and trying to whisper even though his voice scrapes like chalk and _oh god_ but blood stains his teeth and he breathes chaos across her skin.

“Is okay. Please be okay,” he begs.

Her nails dig furrows across his hands but _of course_ he doesn’t let go, not when he’s taken spears and bear traps and carved his own flesh to silence the voice. Waking only let her trade the clawing horror of the dream for this waking nightmare of red cloud and abandoned greed, with only the questionable safety of a deranged nightkin’s protection.

“Please be okay. Let Dog hold you.”

But her heart hammers in her throat and she shakes like a leaf in the wind, pushing and shoving in desperation to get away. “You _scare_ me, Dog. _Let me go_.” Scratching harder, struggling in his arms, she releases a choked sob.

He groans, a low and haunting sound. “Please. Need this. _You_ need this. Please be okay.”

There’s struggle and fight, just like there always is—between her and Dog, him and God, her and God—a perverse triad that has them chasing one another, a serpent devouring its tail. When her fists beat against his arms, it’s but an echo of all their private wars, a demented chorus in this ongoing _thing_ between them. When she kicks against his shins and he grunts, then pins her legs beneath his own, squeezing down to prevent her from attacking—this too is but a ghost of battles long-fought. And finally she breaks herself open, flooding tears across her cheeks and nose running and she’s never felt more small and ugly and _helpless_.

But finally, she empties out this broken vessel.

So she shakes off her shattered pieces, hiccupping and trembling and finally—finally—feeling his arms as warmth and safety once more.

“Please be okay.”

He never let go, not even when she wanted him to. That ought to be a warning, she ought to leave him and disengage before they chain one another even more thoroughly, but right now she’s so cold and dead and lonely.

So she whispers, “I will be, if you hold me.”

And he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From what I’ve read, datura intoxication isn’t usually quite as enjoyable as Jinx remembers, but then again, there’s always individual variation. And the first time I played Honest Hearts and did that quest, it was just so rainbow and trippy that I couldn’t resist laughing out loud. At least until the flaming bear showed up.


End file.
